


nasledstvo

by textbookchoices



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Multi, Sibling Incest, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26127598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/textbookchoices/pseuds/textbookchoices
Summary: Peter settles in next to her, close enough for their legs to touch, but not so close that it would cause questions, and says, "You know, I bet you really would have left without me. You’d love to keep all the shiny stuff to yourself."She raises one delicate eyebrow at her younger brother. "Funny that you assume I have to leave you behind for that.""... True."
Relationships: Felicia Hardy/Peter Maximoff/Wanda Maximoff
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3
Collections: RelationShipping 2020





	nasledstvo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VampirePaladin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampirePaladin/gifts).



"Peter," Felicia calls out, drawling her words out with a hint of exasperation as she taps her heels next to the front door, Jewel rubbing sweetly up against her leg in an attempt, no doubt, to have her stay at home, "it's amazing that you're the fastest boy in your school—"

"I'm the fastest anyone in my school!"

"—and yet the cab is outside waiting for us, and you _still_ haven't finished packing!"

She bends down to give Jewel a scratch between the ears, taking a second to admire the bracelet that slides against her wrist and glints in the light. It had been a late birthday gift to herself.

Peter comes barreling down the stairs with two large bags in his hands, all exuberance and with a grin stretched across his face, and says, "That's not because I'm slow, it's because I'm lazy."

Felicia sighs and straightens back up.

Peter pulls on his sneakers so quickly she hardly sees him do it before he’s next to her, leaning up to kiss her squarely on the mouth, still grinning. He makes to bite at her bottom lip, the insatiable brat. She rolls her eyes and pushes his face away, saying, "I will leave without you."

"Shot through the heart."

Nonetheless, they leave the house and lock the door before heading down to the cab that's waiting to take them to the airport. Peter shoves all their bags into the trunk with help from the driver, and Felicia gives their neighbor a wave where he’s watching through his window. His daughter volunteered to feed and check on the cats while she and Peter are away.

She gets into the cab and waits for Peter and the taxi driver to join her before telling the driver, “JFK, thank you.”

Peter settles in next to her, close enough for their legs to touch, but not so close that it would cause questions, and says, "You know, I bet you really would have left without me. You’d love to keep all the shiny stuff to yourself."

She raises one delicate eyebrow at her younger brother. "Funny that you assume I have to leave you behind for that."

"... True."

She smirks, but then shrugs. "It's an old estate. I have to assume it's been picked over already. But it should be fun, hm?"

Last month, Peter had received a surprising missive from an estate lawyer from _Sokovia_ of all places. Apparently they'd hunted him down because he’s the last surviving descendant of the Maximoff Family Estate, a really old manor and piece of land in Sokovia, despite the fact that he’d been born in DC.

Felicia and Peter had been born to the same mother, but had different fathers.

Felicia’s father had been killed during a bad heist, and her mother, Magda, had re-married Erik Lehnsherr when Felicia was three and had had Peter two years later. When Felicia was seventeen, and Peter twelve, Erik went to prison for instigating a terrorist attack three blocks away from the White House.

That had been… an exciting period of their lives.

Magda drank, and when Felicia moved out a year later, she took Peter and the two cats with her.

She and Peter had gotten by roughly, at first, and then things got easier. They each had particular... skills... that helped them get the things that they needed.

Or just things that they wanted.

In Felicia's case, she liked jewelry and priceless artifacts and happened to know a few people who liked the same things she did and were willing to pay for it without worrying about where it came from.

In Peter's, he may or may not have a lifetime supply of ho-hos and twinkies in the basement. Not to mention seemingly every video game known to man.

Felicia smiles fondly at her brother where he’s already tapping his feet, eager to start their trip. He’s never been good at sitting still. She runs a finger up his wrist gently, listening to his breath hitch and his body’s constant thrumming pause at the touch.

They check their bags and go through security before bunkering down to wait for their flight to start boarding. Felicia rolls her eyes at him when Peter slips off and comes back with a shopping bag full of mid-flight snacks: chocolate bars, chips and soda for him, almonds, pistachios and jellybeans for her. (She still takes her snacks though.)

Finally, they board their flight.

Peter takes the window seat, and lifts an arm for Felicia to squish in next to him and fall asleep against his shoulder. She's a big fan of cat naps, and Peter doesn't mind it much: it helps him keep still if Felicia's warmth is solid and real right next to him.

He laughs his way through two movies, listens to some music, plays Animal Crossing, eats all of his snacks and half of Felicia's, and then pokes Felicia awake because he's so bored he feels like he's going to have to jump out of the plane to keep from going insane.

She digs her nails into his stomach without otherwise moving or opening her eyes and says, voice rough, "We have another four hours. Just go to sleep."

Sleeping isn’t really a thing he can do on command, but he must be bored enough, and Felicia warm enough, that he manages because he wakes up a few hours later to Felicia moving next to him, mid-grooming routine. She closes her compact mirror, puts away the lipstick she'd been applying and says, "We're about to land."

"Thank _God_."

Peter was not made for extended periods of enforced non-movement. It hurts him. It hurts his **_soul_**. Felicia grins at him when he tells her this, and says, "Oh, but you did so well, sweetheart. I didn’t have to stop you from jumping out of the plane even once."

He doesn't preen. That would be ridiculous.

He's still beyond excited when they land in Sokovia, not only the furthest he's ever been away from home, but also sweet, beautiful land where he can stretch out his legs and feel the burn of movement in his lungs. He guesses it’s also pretty cool that this is apparently the country his great-great-great-grandparents were from. It’s like his cultural heritage or something.

The actual town near the estate that they're heading toward isn't anywhere close to the airport, unfortunately. He wants to cry when Felicia tells him, “We’ll have to rent a car. The Maximoff Estate is about three hours away from here.”

This is officially why Peter doesn’t travel.

Luckily, or perhaps for her own sanity, his beautiful, wonderful big sister also suggests they walk around the main city a bit first, and so Peter does, at the very least, get to stretch his legs and try some interesting Sokovian pastries and tea while not understanding a word anyone is saying because hello, foreign land, foreign language along with the foreign food.

He butchers, " _Hello, I'd like to order a hamburger_ ," while looking in an English-Sokovian translation dictionary, apparently badly enough to get kicked unceremoniously out of a restaurant, which is fun.

Ah, well, pastries are good enough and they need to get going anyway.

Peter nearly gets to drive the rental Audi, except for how Felicia says, "No. You never obey the speed limit and I'm not spending my first night in Sokovia in a ditch waiting for a tow truck."

Which is, based off past experience, maybe not an answer entirely without merit. Whatever, he doesn’t even want to drive; everyone is driving on the wrong side of the road.

By the time they reach the smaller town they've been moving towards for hours, the sky has darkened into night and the roads have become more dirt and rock than pavement. Most of the light they're seeing the road by is coming from their own car's headlights rather than intermittent-at-best streetlights. The town is small, old and dark. There's also, Peter complains (and Felicia flicks his ear in response), no Wi-Fi to be found.

They pull into a small lot in front of a beaten down inn that has a total of four rooms, all of them vacant.

Peter gets their bags while Felicia checks in, and they shuffle into the less-than-inspired room they've rented.

Mothball blanket? Check.

Wallpaper from the thirties? Check.

Brown water coming out of the sink? Check.

Suspicious stains on the floors, walls and ceiling? Check.

Television from the seventies? Cheeeee--

Peter flicks through the channels, or would, if there were any channels other than black and white static.

No check.

He flops back on the bed and gives his sister a pointed look.

She rolls her eyes and says, "I've found you sleeping in worse places than this."

That is... unfortunately true.

High school is a wild time in a young man's life.

She adds, "It's just for one night. If the estate is any better, maybe we can stay there tomorrow night."

"Okay," he says, shrugging, and then reaches up to pull her down to the bed with him, mothballs and all. She lands with an _oof_ right on top of him, a heavy weight despite the fact that she’s not heavy, and comforting anyway. He runs his hand up her thigh, squeezing her ass shortly before slipping his hand up the back of her shirt, feeling the warmth of her skin against his palm.

She nips at his bottom lip with her teeth, rocking her hips against his and dragging her hot, wet mouth against his in an open kiss. She pulls back, leaning up on her elbows.

"Mm, creating our own entertainment, are we?" she says. He shudders against her, dick hard in his jeans from the heady combination of her body on his, her mouth on his, her voice in his ear.

"That's the best kind," he gasps as she latches her mouth onto his neck, and fuck, starts to suck with the obvious intent of leaving a mark. _Fuck fuck fuck_. She likes to leave marks on him, if just because she can't just come right out and say that Peter is her boyfriend, lover, brother, all of the above.

Peter, obviously, doesn't mind.

Especially when she grinds against him while she does it. Especially when they squirm to get off their pants, and the crinkle of plastic precedes the soft feeling of her fingers rolling a condom over his dick, when she slides her cunt onto him and sinks down without finesse, taking exactly what she wants from him, rocking, squeezing, thrusting.

He hangs on to her with a groan as he comes inside her, and grins when he gets to scramble between her legs and finish her off as she drags her hands through his hair with soft, whispering moans.

She pulls him up for a kiss after, and they fall asleep, mothballs and all.

Her eyes snap open in the dark.

A rat scuttles across the floor upstairs, but that isn’t what’s woken her from her sleep.

The front door has been opened; the brush of wood against wood as it’s pushed, the creak of the old, warped hinges. The sound of a boy, a young man, of his voice and laughter as he takes footsteps into her home, her manor, hers. “Check this place out!” he says, his voice loud and jarring and familiar in its unfamiliarity. “It’s huge!”

She pushes the lid of the casket up, nearly coughing when she disturbs the dust and stale air of her cellar. It has been too long since she’s last bothered to leave it. There has been no reason to. No brother to warm her body with his own, to trace her skin with rough, bruising fingers, to sink teeth into her neck and drink until dizzy with arousal.

Her sweet, darling brother, her Pietro… was murdered by the _animals_ of that town, _murdered_ for being who and what he was.

A vampire.

She’d made them pay, with death and agony and blood that pooled at their feet and splattered the streets. She’d spilled so much blood that night, ripping them apart with red surges of anger flowing from her body, with her teeth, ripping out their throats with her hands, reaching in to pull out their hearts.

She’d been covered in their blood, and she’d fallen, and she’d wept at their cruelty, at their malice.

Nothing would bring him back, not even the gifts manifested in her when their sire first sunk his teeth into her neck, gifting her with eternal youth and hunger and strength and the red waves of light that circled her hands and did her bidding.

Pietro’s had been blue, streaks of light that followed him, too fast for even a vampire to see unless he wanted you to.

No. She has had few reasons to leave her home and sanctuary since that night. She had sent the humans screaming in terror, her dress soaked in the proof of their mistake in killing him, soaked in their own blood and dying the fabric red. They ran. They ran and ran, like Pietro would never be allowed to run again.

He is dead.

It’s been years, so many years.

She stumbles against the cellar wall.

She’s weak from how long it’s been since she last _fed_.

Wanda is the reason the town hates this place, this manor. They fear it; say that it’s haunted, that trespassers never leave. They tell their children to stay away.

“I wonder how much these paintings might be worth,” a woman’s voice comes, so far away that Wanda can barely hear it. She growls under her breath; the last humans that snuck into her home to steal from her _never_ _left_ and neither would these intruders.

She closes her eyes, and when they open again, they’ve turned red. She ascends the staircase slowly, step-by-step. She hears their voices, their soft gasps as one of them kisses the other, and then laughter and one set of footsteps leading away toward the study, and another toward the kitchen.

They’re exploring then; looking through her home as if they have any right to any of it, to even be here.

She stays close to the walls, avoiding the places where the light shines through the windows and touches the floor. They must have opened the curtains, these people, these invaders and _thieves_ , because Wanda, of course, always had them closed.

The direct light of the sun is too painful on a vampire’s skin.

The boy is in the kitchen. He’s bent down, looking through the pantry, muttering to himself nonsensically as Wanda quietly, noiselessly, follows him in through the door.

“Silver spoons,” he says, loudly and without turning, “these are probably worth something.”

Wanda’s fangs pop out with a hiss and she slams him against the kitchen wall. He drops the glass he’d had in one hand; it shatters on the ground. From his throat comes and undignified choked off scream where her red tendrils begin to choke him quiet. Eyes red, fangs bared, she hisses, “ _Yes_ , they are, but they are not yours and you are in _my_ home.”

His eyes are wide, his hair a fine shade of white, and she loses concentration for a moment when she looks at his face. By the devil, he looks like Pietro.

Not—exactly, but.

She lifts a hand, her nails stained with dirt and remnants of dried blood, and touches his cheek.

He’s warm, and soft, and terrified in her grip, and it has been so long since she had a brother.

He looks like Pietro.

Her tendrils loosen, and perhaps he has a death wish, because he says, voice strangled, “Actually, it’s kind of my house. Legally. I own it. Last living Maximoff and all. I mean, besides my dad, but he’ll be in jail until he like, dies, so— _oh God please don’t kill me_.”

She stumbles backward, her eyes wide, her heart beating quickly in her chest.

“You—you are a Maximoff?” she questions, and then lifts him in their air with her gift. “Answer me!”

“Yes, yes, I’m a Maximoff, and— _Felicia, this lady is not human and she wants to eat me_ —"

Wanda spins just in time to catch something sharp and hard in her stomach, and a blur of black and white spins past her as she falls backward in her surprise. She looks up, ripping the hearth tongs from her stomach where the _woman_ had just attacked her with the makeshift weapon.

Long white hair, pale skin, and wearing pantaloons instead of a dress as though playing at being man, though she’d certainly never be able to fool anyone. Her lips are red, her skin smooth and her breasts are heaving under her thin, too-tight shirt as she pulls the boy toward her. She’s now brandishing a kitchen knife in one hand, her long fingers curled around the hilt of it, and her eyes are hard and dark.

Wanda nearly smiles.

She drops the bloodied tongs to the floor. The metal clangs when it hits. She stands up, and with a flick of intent, the kitchen knife in the woman’s hand is thrown to the side, embedded in the kitchen wall. She and the boy both tense up further.

“You’re his sister,” Wanda says. It isn’t a guess.

The woman nods and adds, “We didn’t mean to intrude. There was a mistake. We thought we were welcome here. We’ll leave.”

She doesn’t look afraid, but she clearly knows when she’s outmatched and is looking for a way out.

“This is the Maximoff Estate,” Wanda says, lifting her hand. “It belongs to me. Wanda Maximoff.”

The boy yanks himself forward an inch and says, “So, you’re, what, my cousin? That’s cool. Always wanted a vampire in the family. I’m Peter, this is my sister Felicia and as we’re, uh, family, you think you could do us a favor and _let us go_ , maybe?”

She does smile, this time, her fangs sliding out over her bottom lip.

“Yes, we are… family. But I am not your cousin.” She’s likely an ancestor of some distance, but it’s no matter. “I will be your sister from now on, and you my brother.” She switches her gaze to the woman, “And you my sister. I’m not going to kill you. I’m going to turn you.”

And with that, she rushes forward and doesn’t hesitate to yank the boy’s head to the side and bury her fangs into his neck. She hears the woman yell, feels the boy jerk under her onslaught, his body relaxing beneath her appetite. She drinks the sweet, metallic taste of blood and iron, draining him and pressing her body to his. She uses her powers to keep the woman still, struggling so hard to get free—to help her brother.

Wanda pulls back, and the boy’s head dangles, weak and exhausted and oh-so-pliant for her, his new sire.

His new sister.

Blood drips down from her fangs and her mouth, soaking her neck and shirt. She looks at the woman, and she grins before she snaps toward her, grabbing her hair in one fist to pull her head to the side, and then she bites, a second meal in as many moments.

The woman’s body is warm beneath hers, soft in the places Wanda isn’t so used to. She’s eager to bring them both to her bed, to learn their bodies and have them learn hers. To have a brother again, and a sister as an extra surprise.

A family.

Weak fingers grasp at her, trying to push her away.

Wanda smiles through the bite. _Humans_. They have no chance against a vampire. Not unless they’re prepared, and these two had no idea what was coming for them. They came into Wanda’s home like pigs led to their own slaughter.

That’s alright.

They won’t be human for much longer.

Felicia wakes up in a bed, curtains drawn to block out the light.

She can see through the darkness anyway.

Peter is on one side, skin warm and naked against her own. He mumbles in his sleep and rubs a hand against her stomach.

On the other side of her is a girl who can’t be more than twenty, and yet Felicia knows she’s older than anyone else she’s ever met, hundreds of years at least. Dark hair spills out across her pale, naked skin, and there’s dried blood smeared around her mouth.

On Peter’s too.

The taste of iron is in her mouth.

She stretches her limbs, and with a low purr deep in her throat, curls around her lovers and goes back to sleep until it's time to wake up and feed.


End file.
